


Maleficar

by jillyfae



Series: Blood and Lyrium [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood, Blood Magic, Bloodplay, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Magic, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:39:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The slow descent into the madness that is Act 3 does not go well when you're already walking a knife's edge of sanity, thanks to blood magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maleficar

She knew the day it tasted sweet on her tongue would be the day she lost her balance. So long walking on the knife’s edge, keeping it a choice, if always the last one.

But never impossible.

Nothing was impossible when she felt that power surge through her, the bitter tang of metal and salt in the back of her throat, the fire along her nerves.

Sometimes she frightened Isabela afterwards, violence and sex and need, taking and taking and taking again, until finally the lust ebbed and she could sleep.

Isabela left though, fleeing before Qunari vengeance.

She had to find different prey.

It was always so _easy._

She never used her magic to coerce or cajole, no mind control or demons needed when she could use her words, her body, lightning and fire and stone and ice and _power._

So much power.

**_***_ **

**_(like calls to like)_ **

Merrill recognizes the glint in her eyes when her blood sings too loudly to ignore, and shuts her door.

_You’re too reckless, lethallan, you like it too much, I will not help you feed the ache inside you._

She lies. They both know she lies, but they continue the game, the first few steps always the same.

Hawke stands outside and sings, whispers of dreams and legends and futures and pasts, until she hears the lock click, the bar slide into place.

She calls the force of her magic then, and breaks the door down, wind or stone screaming through her fingers.

Merrill, of course, fights back, a vicious tangle of vines, the lurching of the earth beneath their feet.

Sometimes Merrill wins.

Merrill is seldom merciful in victory, the tight bonds of vines, thorns piercing skin, both of them shuddering with pleasure as blood wells and drips, breath panting and hearts beating in sync as they kiss and moan.

Sometimes Merrill makes her watch as she pleases herself, leaves Hawke to writhe and scream, frustrated and neglected, until her voice is hoarse and the taste of blood down her throat makes her fall apart with power instead of pleasure.

Sometimes Merrill uses the plants themselves, vines choking and tightening, sliding inside a body never meant to take them.

Sometimes, rarely, once she surrenders Merrill is gentle, lets magic fade and touches her with hands and lips, caresses her with fingertips and tongue, until they cling to each other, sweet pleasure and soft cries, almost affection.

She is never gentle, when the tables are turned, when Merrill falls. She is fierce and brutal, forcing Merrill to her knees, tears of pain and rage and lust in bright green eyes only fueling her desire.

_It hurts._

_And you love it._

_Never._

_Always._

She traces blood on Merrill’s skin, the ultimate _vallaslin,_ until she makes her beg, and plead, until Merrill promises anything, if only she’ll make it stop.

Merrill lies again; neither wants to stop.

But she stops anyways, and they fuck against rough wooden floors and rougher plaster walls, until they can barely speak, barely stand, and they stagger apart, swearing and licking their wounds. Promising _never again_.

They both lie. Neither can resist the heat in their veins.

**_***_ **

**_(hatred burns the brightest, tastes the sweetest)_ **

Sometimes she picks a fight.

Fenris, Anders, Sebastian. Doesn’t matter which, doesn’t matter who. For all they follow her, fight beside her, argue with each other, they all agree on one thing.

They hate blood magic.

And yet none of them can quite hate her for using it.

And so they hate themselves. A little more every day.

_***_

_A free mage, a public mage, the only chance for change._

Anders argues. Justice flares. They scream and throw things at each other.

“You’re better than this.” So angry his fingers tremble, staring at fresh lines against her skin, almost scars that will fade from her arms in time, but not from his memory.

“So are you.” One finger gently slides against his cheek, tracing where the line of blue fire will blossom, when she makes him angry enough his skin cracks. “Or you were. What have you made yourselves, now?”

“We have never succumbed to the lure of blood. The easy way out. We never shall.” Justice’s voice crackles in the air between them, and she laughs. Oh how she laughs, bitter and rich and delighted.

“And how many have died at your hands? How many times have you dreamed of Templar blood, enough to cover every stone in the Gallows’ Court? You love blood even more than I do.”

Usually he has the sense to leave when she starts baiting him in earnest, asking about the voices in the Fade, the difference between Justice and Vengeance, anger and rage, guilt and penance and punishment.

Sometimes, though, she chooses her words just wrong, _just right_ , and he asks about Bethany, or Carver, or Leandra, all gone, all dead, _all my fault_ , and she hits him, nails and blood and magic flaring.

And then they fight in earnest, as brutal and vicious any magister’s duel, though neither would admit as such aloud.

Only when someone falls, drained and broken and vulnerable, do the spikes of power fade, replaced by green and soothing light. Hands gentle, the winner takes the loser home, tucks tired flesh between soft sheets, a brush of lips against hot skin, a whisper of kindness, for just a moment , before leaving.

_***_

_She kills the slavers, frees the slaves, gives away her power and her coin._

Fenris refuses to argue with her. No fancy battle of words or wits. He simply watches. Disapproves of her methods, if not her goals.

She follows him home, sometimes, insists on pointing out all the ways she’s different. The things she doesn’t do but could, the power that stays beyond her reach only because she refuses to stretch to touch it.

She asks if he could do as much, were he offered the chance.

Would he not use fire to burn Tevinter to the ground, if he could call it to his hands?

Does he not use skills no one can combat, reaching into a slaver’s chest to rip him to pieces?

Are they really so very different?

The first time she provokes him into using some of that strength of his, slamming her against the wall with a growl, her whole body eases and aches, both at once, and she closes her eyes on a purr.

He throws her out, scowling as if disgusted.

But he lets her back in again.

He chokes her the next time, and she thanks him with a soft kiss against callused fingers before she goes.

He always grants her his punishment.

She refuses to magic away the bruises and welts, reveling in the ache as she heals the old-fashioned way.

_***_

_Sanity and purpose, power Kirkwall needs. Power I needed, to avenge my family. I cast my lot with you, I cannot abandon you now. But the things you do…_

She never can get Sebastian to yell. Or raise a hand in anything but earnest prayer.

For the longest time, she can think of no way through his shell when he proselytizes on who she _should be,_ rather than who she is becoming.

On who he thinks she can be.

Or perhaps on who he wishes  _he_ could be?

He wants so badly to help, and has so little ability to do so, despite the privileges of rank and royal name.

So she lets him.

She asks him to take her to services, to talk about the sermon with her afterwards, and the choir's choice of verse.

To share with her how The Chantry helped him, after he left Starkhaven, after his family died.

She dances around the edges of just enough truths, her own sorrows and losses trembling behind her voice, that he can never quite resist her, even though he knows,  _he knows,_ that she will never release her power for his faith.  Her soul is hers, and she will never give it up, not to anyone, not even to be _saved_.  She has finally found the keys to open him up before her: doctrine and history.

He almost sputters when she makes lewd comments about Shartan and Andraste, sighs when she smiles, too sharp, too bright.  Yet he never leaves.  He always turns the next page of their latest book, and his eyes are always soft as he looks at her, a terrible desperate hope hiding behind the blue even as he argues with her flippant sacrilege, brogue thickening with passion and frustration.  But still he tries, again and again as if somehow, someday, he'll find the right words to grant her back her lost grace.

As if she'd take it back, though the Maker himself stepped from Beyond the Fade to hand it to her.

He knows she is playing him, twisting him between her fingers 'til she can aim him precisely where she wants him; still he cannot quite resist. He follows her into battle and does nothing more at the blood red lift of her magic than bow his head and pray when it is over, one small tight crease settling between his brows. He sits beside her any evening she asks, and lets her see his heart, while she never offers more than a glimpse of her own in return, and she knows,  _she knows,_ that he is hers for the asking.

**_***_ **

**_(all things end)_ **

When Anders dies, her knife in his heart, his magic becomes a part of her, and she falls.

_He tastes like sunshine, bright and sweet and burning._

She screams as she rises again, and it is glorious.

She kills all the Templars. Not just Meredith. All of them. Feels each heartbeat stop, adding strength to her own.

She tells the mages to run while the running is good, though few of them manage to run far enough, and pulls the Gallows down. Buries herself in stone and dust and pain.

She rises again, power and life and death dripping from her fingers, and she laughs.

An arrow pierces her throat, cutting off all breath and voice with a wicked sickening choke.

Three bolts follow, a row of staggering pain through her chest, and she falls to her knees.

There is blood everywhere, power surging through her too quickly for her to grasp.

There is still enough to hold her up, however, and she lifts her head enough to hear the steps approaching, to see the row of familiar boots. Her friends, her lover, her best beloved enemies.

All except Aveline. The Guardswoman had long since washed her hands of the Champion, and would not leave her duties in Kirkwall. Not even to force an almost-sister to say good-bye.

“Killer was a joke, Hawke.” For once there is no laughter hiding under Varric’s familiar rumble. “You weren’t supposed to take the whole world out.”

“We had to stop you, _lethallan._ ” Merrill whispers. So soft. Sweet even in despair.

Theia Hawke raises her head just a little more. Enough to see Fenris’ blade, waiting, a line of perfect steel from her neck to his hands. “We must be sure, Hawke.” His voice is a rough rasp, the promise in his eyes a dark one. He’ll take her head. Ensure she’s truly gone.

Sebastian might not let them burn her, after all. That is reserved for the faithful. He would not wish to grant her passage by Andraste’s side, even by accident.

She stares at them all, aligned against her, elves and dwarf and human, warrior and rogues and mage. Kirkwalls’ finest. Because of her. Her strength, her power, her blood, calling them, binding them together.

She smiles as she dies.

**Author's Note:**

> revised 1 June 2014


End file.
